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Frowning, Laurel whirled around to check the other two bedrooms, the bathroom, and then back downstairs, even though he couldn’t be there.
“Zac?” she shouted, uselessly. “Zac?”
Her nephew was gone.
Chapter Eight
Laurel’s first impulse was to run back to Archie’s, and have him solve this as he had everything else. But he couldn’t possibly know where Zac was, because she’d just been with him, drinking whisky of all things. How could she have been so unbelievably irresponsible, leaving her nephew alone to go drink alcohol? Even if that hadn’t been her original intent.
At least she felt entirely clear-headed now as she threw on her coat and boots and once more headed out into the dark night. She didn’t know where even to begin to look, or where Zac might have gone. Stromness was at least a ten-minute walk away, and almost everything in the town closed at five, if not before. Still, she suspected that the dubious delights of the Orkney town, about as far from London’s urban charms as one could get, would draw Zac more than stumbling around a sheep paddock, accompanied by a chorus of mournful bleating, which was really about the only other option on the island on a dark winter’s night.
Digging her hands deep into her pockets, she started striding along the road to Stromness, panic lapping at her senses and threatening to overwhelm her. What if he did something really stupid? Zac was fourteen. It was the age for stupidity. Of course, when Laurel had been fourteen, Abby had already left, and she’d done nothing more rebellious than doing her homework in front of the telly, not that her father had even had a rule about that.
Why hadn’t he?
Laurel pushed the question aside, knowing now was not the time to wonder why her dad had been so hands-off during her childhood. As for Abby… when she’d been fourteen, she’d been taking care of Laurel.
Where was Zac?
Laurel had reached the outskirts of Stromness, its main street a narrow lane with cobblestones down the centre, terraced cottages on either side, the harbour glinting darkly in the distance. There wasn’t much of anything about; she’d have to walk another ten minutes at least to get to the town’s few retail offerings—a Victorian-looking hotel on the waterfront, and a couple of shops that would surely be shuttered by now. Laurel couldn’t remember anything else, but she doubted Zac would have ventured this far. Would he? Where had he gone?
Stromness wasn’t large by any means, but its main street meandered for well over a mile, and Laurel knew she could spend hours stumbling around in the dark, to no good purpose. Surely it was better to go back to the cottage and wait, even if she hated the thought of doing nothing. When, she wondered, did this become an emergency?
Zac wasn’t a little kid, after all. He was a teenager, and a Londoner to boot. He could undoubtedly take care of himself. He could almost undoubtedly get into all sorts of trouble. Should she call the police? Did she want to go down that route?
Berating herself yet again for leaving him alone, Laurel turned and walked back through the cold and dark to Bayview Cottage.
Back at the cottage she stoked the fire, as if its cheering warmth would somehow beckon Zac back home, and then ended up pacing the small confines of the downstairs, wondering if she should go back out again, ring the rehab centre in what would most likely be a futile attempt to reach Abby, or go over to Archie’s and ask him to help. Caught in the crosshairs of indecision and uncertainty, she did none of them, and instead paced and waited. Prayed.
After twenty endless and agonising minutes, she heard the sound of footsteps outside the cottage, and she flew to the door and wrenched it open, gaping in surprise at the sight of Archie marching Zac up the path, one hand firmly clamped on his shoulder.
“What on earth…” She could not complete the thought.
“You have an escaped prisoner,” Archie said cheerfully, one eyebrow raised. “Found him wandering the paddock outside my house.”
“What… where were you, Zac?” Laurel cried.
“At the Ferry Inn, in town,” Archie supplied. “Getting trolleyed, by the looks of it.”
“Trolleyed—” Laurel repeated blankly, unable to take it in.
“Drunk,” Archie explained succinctly.
Laurel gaped. Her fourteen-year-old nephew was drunk? Now that she could look at him properly, she saw that it was obvious. His expressi
on was glazed, and he was swaying slightly, despite Archie’s firm hold. As Laurel watched helplessly, he hiccupped.
“How was a fourteen-year-old boy served at a pub?” she demanded, even though she supposed that was the least of her concerns right then.
Archie shrugged. “He’s a big, braw lad.”
“He has braces.”
“Even so.”
“You’d better bring him in.” She shook her head, despair crashing over her, making her want to cry. This was so far from what she’d hoped for this holiday. So, so far.
Archie shouldered Zac, who was surprisingly docile, into the cottage. Her nephew half-sat, half-collapsed, onto the sofa, his head lolling back against the cushions.
